Midnight STARS
by Cassend
Summary: Because this is TOTALLY not NARCISSISM.  WeskerxWesker  He loves himself. Literally.


_ABC-... I don't even know ._.. I JUST THOUGHT THIS WAS A FANTASTIC-.. STUPID- IDEA-. It needed to be written._

_NEEDED TO BE WRITTEN- (better than I can, BUT I DIGRESS.)_

WeskerxWesker is possibly the best crack pairing I was ever to gain from a friend. Thank you Marna. This one's for you.

**STARS at F*kin' Midnight**

Honestly he should've seen it coming as a slap of irony to redden an already ironic existence. All those "Go fuck yourself-s" later, the "don't give a damn about anybody but yourself-s" chalked up one after another until those select phrases outweighed any adjective ever attributed to him. As far as attractive went he believed himself to be a very sexually appealing person with a damn useful magnetism, but surely he wasn't a narcissist!

He just believed that his hair and body were the epitome of perfection, was all.

Of course, he was far superior to any human, broad shoulders, thick muscle in his arms, picture perfect golden blonde hair (always kept slicked back without a hair out of place, mind you) and flawlessly sculpted face, strong jaw and thin lips- but he wasn't a narcissist.

Surely not.

"Well, this seems to be on the scale of perturbing- though I'm not quite sure why." He said, or rather, his dream doppelganger crooned. From his own perspective, the "other him's" voice oozed manipulative poison. It was a rather queer dream already, meeting himself in a dark alley on a sticky summer night.

The other him, the dream him, chanced a bemused smirk, handsome smirk. Wesker could only feel the impress of seeing his reflection in a trenchant and… what was that? –a black tracksuit of some kind? Whatever the outfit was technically called, he could quite readily call it "form fitting".

"Indeed." He replied to his black-clad mirror. That mirror kept smirking, adjusted his glasses and pulled them off the bridge of his nose. Studying the subject, most likely. It's not every day you come face to face with your own drop-dead gorgeous face. Wesker leaned against the brick wall behind him, feeling rather solid, though this was a dream, and eyed himself in the same fashion.

Damn was **he** in serious shape… he could almost forgive his dark friend for wearing nothing but tight leather, because the abdominal bulk stretching the fabric was enough of a reason to forgo that little detail. Wesker's eyes lingered in some places more than others, in particular, the eyes of his so very obviously malevolent friend.

Red serpentine eyes, screaming power and pride, arrogance. He envied such silent charisma instantly, admired the physical feature a moment longer, until his own mouth curved into a smirk.

"Well," he said, cleverly swinging the word, tasting it in his mouth and making certain there was enough sugar and velvet to go around. "I have to admit, I am quite impressed, Captain- you've quite a miasma about you."

"Yes." His shadow crooned, tracing his chin as if in thought, long gloved fingers cradling a jaw to observe. "Captain, however- that is your title and not mine."

Wesker looked down, at the dark police-issued uniform, vest and holsters, dozens of pockets, a patch claiming "STARS" proudly emblazoned. Naturally, it's a spoonful of storybook proportions, when the man of the law meets his inner demon (though morals were hardly his cup of tea). The Captain straightened an untidy crease in his uniform, crossing his arms and reclining against the imagined brick.

"Oh? Then what is your title?" he purred, amused. It couldn't be helped. This midnight man, split image of himself was undeniably intriguing, intimidating, powerful.

"God." He sighed, equally entertained. His dopple searched for a reaction with his eyes, the slits widened a fraction to soak in expression, and it certainly was satisfied. Wesker gave his shadow a feline smile, and a chuckle, all the invitation the other him needed.

"Then my plans are a success." He said, elated, walking towards the "god" to congratulate him on job well done, on a plan many years in the works. Sheer charisma, power, the shadow epitomized the dark nature but sheer righteousness of conquest.

"My plans, yes." Midnight drawled, watching him with a perfect grin on his face, reaching to grab the Captain's shoulder in one very quick movement. "Not yours, I'm afraid."

Wesker didn't shy away from the challenge as his shadow's long fingers drilled bruises into his skin through the shoulder of his shirt. He didn't even seem to be trying to use force, he was just that powerful.

"I doubt that." Wesker sighed, ignoring the pain of having his own apparent superhuman strength being used on his shoulder. "After all, you **are** me."

It was just a dream, and like all good dreams one would have when they passed out on their office desk (Amongst a rather important pile of paperwork-mind you), this dream had to include the element of nonsensical mishaps.

IE: His doppelganger grabbing his jaw with the free hand, a little more gently than his shoulder, and smirking within five inches of his personal space. From this rather enclosed position, he could notice quite a few things about himself in a tight leather outfit that he did not notice before.

One, Midnight him's rock-hard abdominals were flush against **his** tactical vest, and his strength didn't allow much room to pull away (he didn't feel inclined to). Two, the shadow smelled very musky, like leather and gel and skin, alluring. Three, he, himself, and himself, both seemed quite pleased with themselves at this very moment.

"You and I," said himself in tight, tight leather. "Are not the same caliber of **us**."

"Oh? But it seems we have the same magnitude of our **self**."

"Our _self-indulgence_, perhaps?" Midnight queried, smirk ever present. "I find you an attractive-" he took a moment to turn the Captain's handsome face to the side- "yet slightly more _human_ me."

The Captain let out a chuckle, rumbling, smooth, like greased over leather ribbons, intoxicating sounds. "By all means, indulge ourselves silly- After all, the human in me is rather fleeting- gone by the week, I expect."

Intoxicating excuses that made Midnight's smirk grow fangs. Narcissism, SURELY NOT- impossible! But there it was, like a giant neon sign to the twin devils, a sign that read "vanity". Midnight was quite proud, it showed in the way his red, red eyes narrowed, the way his smile connected with the Captain's thin lips, and the way that the Captain thought this was absolutely the most easy to accept fantasy that he had ever had.

And then came the praise that he was the most talented individual when it came to "making-out", because the shadow had his lips working like a pump, kissing, dominating, fighting, sucking the wet flesh dry. Of course he was the best kisser! The Captain had to grin into the violence, because it was violent, and with that violence were silent screams of power in motion.

The shadow gripping his face with leather gloves and throwing him into the wall faster than he could blink, skull to bricks and tongue to tongue with himself was FAR more enticing than he could have ever imagined in a sober state of mind. Wet tongues, violently groping hands vice gripping the Captain's face, and 100% more Wesker per square inch to enjoy (and enjoy they did).

This was UNQUESTIONABLY not narcissism!

Midnight didn't waver, didn't hesitate to rip the belt off of himself, The Captan, nor did he ask permission or question his own intent (AFTER ALL, THIS WAS HIMSELF HE WAS TALKING ABOUT, AND HE MOST DEFINITELY KNEW HIS OWN INTENTION). More kissing, hot kissing with The Captain, who fought him every step of the way.

Out of the two of them, Midnight trumped in strength, but as stated before, they were truly of the same Wesker magnitude, meaning both Weskers were equally as stubborn as an ass. Midnight's leather hand pulling down the Captain's pants, the Captain growling like a wolf as his lips were set free and bloody to snap at himself.

"Tiring?" the Captain challenged, met with double vision, both smirks perfect and in unison.

"Far from it." He sneered. "Fucking myself into a brick wall-"

"- a testament to narcissism, isn't that?"

"Did Narcissus ever have _this_ much fun?"

The Captain grinned. His personality was rather enjoyable, refreshing, and magnetic. Intelligent and caustic, manipulative, and a sexy-as hell bastard. The pride for himself swelled over the Captain, and he had to admit that he really was one hell of an individual with a bulge in his pants that probably could kill.

Midnight watched, drank the image of himself in as he traced the hard flesh of the Captain's dick. Well-endowed, people claimed, the Captain felt that stab of selfish conceit as his doppelganger fondled the shaft. Hungry eyes, intimidating eyes sucking him in. He wanted to impress himself, so the Captain put on his best poker face, even sighing as if bored.

Midnight frowned and squeezed, The Captain set his jaw to stony subzero expression, determined. He was glad the shades remained perched on his nose, his eyes told too many secrets. He expected himself to change tactics, for that is exactly what he would do if he were him, which he was.

As if on thought-provoked cue, his shadow did switch tactics, kneeling before The Captain, Midnight's smirk-stained lips and hot breath on his cock, so fast. Tongue tasting the slit, drinking himself in. The Captain groaned despite his best efforts, froze to remain still though he so very much wanted to feed himself a good hard length.

Midnight pinned his hips, fed off a supernatural cocktail of dick and reactions, salty and sweet to swallow. The Captain's clipped nails scraped brick, body hitched, libido screaming one thing "fuck you". No, literally, "Go fuck yourself raw", Midnight took him in, swallowed, swallowed again, and The Captain snarled. His hips wouldn't move, cemented by lubricated leather gloves, thin fingers, his own elegant fingers.

Again the tight hot throat contracts around his cock, he grunts and scrapes white trails, injures the bricks behind him. The Captain realized very quickly that he is excellent at giving head, that he has an extremely talented tongue, and that he has a reputation for always getting what he wants.

That thought is only more arousing, only making this incredibly sexual encounter of damning proportions that much sweeter. Determination, power. It makes him grin and his nails dig into Midnight's skull as if excavating the roots of his perfect hair, and smile. Midnight swallows again, one leather hand pins the Captain down and the other strays under his clothes, leaving a wet trail behind.

The Captain yanks on Midnight's hair, to urge him faster, the shadow doesn't budge. He's strong enough to resist any sort of menial pull. _Why was that so alluring? _More throat, deeper, without a breath and more wet, tightness to push apart, to feel suffocate his dick. The Captain snarls as Midnight chuckles, swallowing him up, his every twitch and spasm and his wet cock to the base. He gets himself off? Of course.

The Captain groans and hisses as spasms roll up his spine, shooting a thick load into his reflection's seductive throat, of course, being the narcissist he was, knew he would enjoy his own taste. Spurts and swallows later, tongue licks backwards and a cum-stained mouth, a lick at the tip to clean him off, and Midnight stood with his smirk to plant a violent kiss between parted lips.

The Captain was thankful for his vest, it absorbed the friction burn of being ground into a rough surface hard enough to make somebody bleed. He could taste himself on his own lips, all two sets of them. The most fantastic tongue tango ensued, wet organs slithering about each other, one and the same having the flavor of a liar.

Liar tasted like Wesker. Midnight's slithered on him with every serpentine aspect of scaly-patterned clothing and man (solid man), his hands resuming posture, cuffing the Captain by the neck with a palm, unzipping his fly with another hand.

"Curious." Said the Captain, yet he was simply jesting. "I am quite the partner."

"**We** are a satisfying person." Said Midnight, purring the words with subtle strokes of simultaneous venom and ego (not to mention a leathery set of fingers working over the Captain's sex). Rough strokes, quick ones because he, himself, and Wesker by nature were not the most patient of creatures when it came to something they wanted in the heat of the moment, and they wanted themselves.

-because there was no denying it, his self was ridiculously sexy. Midnight pressed his stretched leather muscles into the Captain's body, grinding with a snarl, pleased with a grin. The Captain wasn't a submissive, but rationally speaking, he could see no point to contend with himself, his sexy as hell self, attempting to weld him to the brick wall.

Rhythmic pushing, pinning, kissing- matching his heart palpitations in speed- Midnight far stronger, grabbing the Captain's broad shoulders and twisting his spine hard enough to send him to the ground- to which the Captain grunted. What a vivid dream this was, the landing hurt like a bitch. The Captain's shades were knocked off, blue eyes behind them screwing up as the landing rattled his bones.

And his shadow was on his back- faster than any normal man (hardly surprising. The Captain's lips curled in a hiss, Midnight's arms tenderizing the muscle of his back, clawing at the vest, ripping it off straight down the thread lines (_was he some sort of unstoppable machine?) _The navy blue polo wasn't spared- the Captain's back was brutalized with a series of crushing touches- hard enough to be punches in themselves-.

Exploring leather gloves left welts where the fingers were too curious and pressed down, the Captain relished the pain, arcing his spine straight out of his clothing as it was ripped apart- something wicked bursting from its shell with a grin. So this is what it felt to succumb to the pinnacle of self-centered arrogance?

Feeling your own superhuman muscled body slither against you?

The Captain growled in delight when his other-self decided to crush his hips. He probably could shatter bone- what a thought!

He snarled at the attention turning, to his ass- leather slick fingers probing him without warning, growling, amused. Midnight knew how to pleasure himself.

In a very literal sense.

The Captain snickered, relaxed against his own long fingers, kept his eyes on his hands and licked his lips. He seemed quite the evil bastard, Midnight- though he wasn't one to make judgments- but pushing in without any further preparation? Now THAT was evil.

And rough. The Captain clawed the pavement, hissed because it had been way too long – and he was now certainly _full of himself_ (enough to make SOMETHING rip.) Wesker and Wesker let out simultaneous growls, Midnight gripping the Captain by the shoulders and pushing in (he knew he could take it)- until the friction was too much, and Captain was too tight.

_ "Damn it." _

The Captain gave a twitch and some sort of guttural groan- pain- pleasure? His pants around his ankles bit into his skin where the belts and snaps dug in- welts at the back, the excruciating pain of first penetration spindling up and down his body- but not _his_ body. Muscles against him- muscles bucking back. The Captain hissed as Midnight deemed it prudent and apt to just pull back and plunge again. Pulsing cock- thick… inside… hot- fucking STRONG.

Wesker hissed his own name- because he was just that damn sexy to himself- jittered and sneered the pains away and the pleasures forcibly burning.

_Thrust_- HE WAS STRONG- forcing him into the ground-

_Thrust_, groan, hisssss- NEVER NARCISSISM- The Captain kissing pavement until his forearms were bloody, and the leather hand stroking, almost ripping his dick clean off, was ripping apart.

_Thrust_- Smashing himself into pavement- sweating- refusing himself and himself the pleasure of ending it, groaning-

_Thrust_- leather to skin, snake skin and more welts, faster- harder- DEEPER-

_Thrust_- The Captain feeling something break when Midnight's pursuit becomes frantic and he smacks a shoulder into the ground (The Captain doesn't even care- it's too elating and Midnight is SO STRONG- HE is so strong!) Midnight bites him, hard, moves faster and harder until he's crushing The Captain- but both of them hiss and groan like animals- pleased animals-

The Captain hisses, his fingers bloody from the pavement, jerks back- Midnight catches his throat as he cums- cutting off his air supply, forcing him to soundlessly gasp while his body pulses, orgasms hard and becomes light headed and dizzy.

Midnight keeps going- it's only that much more impressive- arousing- when he doesn't let go of his neck, when the welts are dug there and he keeps pounding, breath hot and heavy.

Completely unshakeable- Sick smile on the Captain's oxygen deprived lips- senses haywire and muted-

Midnight pulls out, if only to throw the Captain on his back and snap his knees into the pavement and guide himself back in, hips smashing hard, one hand cutting off air and the other working The Captain back to standing attention, moist leather and a pumping fist.

The Captain gasped without air, felt the muscled body lay on him, muscles and power and heat while his vision swam and his brain spun out of control- the image of himself in entirely black, cruel smirk, red eyes. He stiffened despite the exhaustion and the lack of air- with every thrust that pressure made him crave to growl back- to hiss his approval.

More welts- scratches, bruises, back bleeding from the beatings, the repeated throw down into tar. The Captain struggled under himself, fought it, tried to breathe- pulsing-

He was going to lose consciousness- Midnight rammed in, squeezing his naked reflection with a vulgar sound, let the Captain a breath of air, one hell of a breath- to cum for him just one more time- The Captain was picturesque- HIMSELF- scenic- fine body- sweaty body- delicious the way the Captain's spine bent with his breath and his climax threw him into a characteristic howl.

Scenic- and Midnight gave in, laughing cruelly and spilling himself in jerks- crushing something, running his body dry.

- and then he threw his body forward and hit his head the side of his desk- wake up call with a vicious migrane.

The Captain groaned and peeled himself from his office floor, scrambling to stand- papers all over the floor. His head ached, his body screamed in protest and fell into his chair- no grace whatsoever.

Knock-knock-knock. He groaned, rubbed the ache behind his eyes, and pretended he wasn't there. He had other things on his mind.

Like how he literally just fucked himself over.

No- definitely not narcissism, Just a dream…


End file.
